Intercepted (Page 58)

I guess the stubborn qualities we both possess aren’t always a good thing.

I know he feels like I’m in the wrong, Mrs. Pope tells me so when she calls me begging me to go over to his place and work things out. Being the mature woman I am, I refuse and tell her to tell him he’s the one who should be apologizing.

He doesn’t apologize, and I don’t hear from his mom again.

We play this game with each other for a week before he reaches out, asking to meet at Fresh before I go to work. I agree. I might be mad, but I miss him too. My stupid heart makes things so much more difficult than my brain prefers. Shamelessly, I wake up an hour early, primping and curling, adding an extra swipe of mascara, like he’d notice and drop to his knees in an apology.

I arrive at Fresh a few minutes early so I can order my own coffee. Don’t ask why it feels so important to not let him spend the four dollars on my vanilla latte. It just is. Maybe even more important now knowing he’s the highest paid athlete in the NFL.

I’ve fallen into the trap already. I know how easy it is to get complacent. Coffee turns into dinner, dinner turns into a new pair of shoes, shoes stay in his huge closet and before I know what’s happened, I’m shacked up with some football player, dependent and back to square one.

When they hand me my latte, Gavin still isn’t there, so I find an open table tucked against the exposed brick wall in the back. I pull out one of the clear acrylic chairs that I always lie and say are comfortable because I think they’re cute, but in reality it’s like sitting on the floor.

I wait for twenty minutes before I start to think I might have been stood up. Gavin is so punctual, it’s annoying. So being late isn’t alarming, it’s a slap in the face.

I’m gathering my empty coffee cup and pushing away from the table when the energy in the place changes. The patrons who were sitting quiet moments ago are now doing a pretty crappy job at whispering loudly. Movements become more hurried. I look at the couple across from me and follow their eyes toward to door. And there, looking his normal, gorgeous self, is Gavin.

His eyes meet mine moments after I notice him. A big, goofy grin appears on his face. When he starts to walk toward me, his chin dimple that’s normally concealed with his beard is just noticeable under his scruff. I can’t stop the way my thighs squeeze together. I guess my heart’s not the only part of me that’s a traitor.

And dammit if being in his presence doesn’t put a chip in my already weakened armor.

“Hey,” he calls out and draws the attention of everyone my way. So much for my nice, quiet, semi-private table in the back. “Sorry I’m running late.”

“Not a problem,” I lie.

“I’m going to grab a coffee for myself. Do you want anything?”

“No, thank you.” I wave my empty cup at him. “I’m good.”

“Be right back then.” He leans in the way I grew so used to during our time together and hesitantly touches his lips to mine. “I’ve missed doing that. You look gorgeous.”

“Extra mascara.” A peck on the lips. All it took for me to revert into my say-anything-turn-to-mush self was one little peck on the lips.

And when his eyes crinkle at the corners and his blue eyes turn liquid, I’m tempted to say screw coffee . . . screw me. It’s on the tip on my tongue, but my brain kicks back in and I manage to grab the last bit of self-restraint as it slips through my fingers and hold on for dear life.

You will not have sex with him. You will not have sex with him. You will NOT have sex with him.

I chant the mantra in my head the entire time he’s getting coffee. My mom always made me write my spelling words a billion times so I wouldn’t forget them. She always said, “Repetition is the key to mastery.” Hopefully it works in this case as well.

He sits in the chair across from me and takes a deep sip of his large coffee, which is very unlike him. Usually he orders a medium coffee, sometimes small. Never large. It makes me take notice of other things about him. Like the way his hair is long, even for him. Or the dark circles surrounding his bloodshot eyes. Even his outfit, which is really freaking hot, is wrinkled and worn. It’s a look I remember well from the long, frequent nights Chris spent partying.

“Did you just get here?”

“Um . . . yeah?”

“No.” I shake my head, trying to find the right words. “I mean, did you just get here from being out all night?”

“Oh. Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I went out with TK and a few of the rookies. The young ones know how to party.”

What an asshole. We see each other for the first time in a week. I come in early after a morning spent finding the perfect outfit and making sure I looked my best and he comes in late, wearing the clothes from last night, and possibly still drunk.

Is he insane?

Or is he just like every other football player with an overinflated ego and no regard for others?

“Seriously, Gavin?” I try to tamp down the irritation currently threatening to blow all over my favorite coffee shop. “We haven’t talked in how long? Then the first time we do, which, in case you forgot, was your idea, you can’t even go home and shower first?”

“I’m not here to fight with you.” His bullshit attempt to calm me only pisses me off more—I’m not the drunk, late one! I don’t get the lecture here, he does!

“Neither am I. I thought maybe showing up on time, dressed and showered would have tipped you off to that point.” I close my eyes, draw in a deep breath, and try to relax. “Why did you call then?”

“Our first mini-camp is this week. I’m going. I want my teammates to know me before training camp. I want them to understand I’m as dedicated as they are.” He takes a sip of coffee and when he looks at me again, I don’t see the tiredness anymore. I see hope and happiness.

I feel like an asshole. He’s the new starting quarterback for his favorite childhood team. His family will be able to go to his games. He’ll get to see his nephew as he grows. And all I’ve thought about is me.

“So I’ve been thinking about things.” He leans forward, reaching a hand across the table, lacing our fingers together, and dammit if that minimal contact doesn’t weaken my resolve. “I messed up.”

“Yeah,” I agree, tightening my grip on his hand. “You kinda did.”

“I know how hard you’ve worked to get HERS going and how much you love your apartment. I want to take your stress away, not add to it, and you finding out about New York the way you did was fucked up.”

Wow.

I was hopeful, but I was not expecting an apology.

“I really appreciate that, thank you.”

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to make this move work best for both of us,” he says. “This last week I talked to Brynn and your parents to try and figure things out.”

Wait.

Quarterback say what?

“Work shouldn’t be too hard. Brynn said she’ll give you a recommendation letter and whatever you need for work. I even had her make a list of good potential matches in Jersey and New York. Your parents said they’ll help you pack and can store whatever you don’t want to take in their basement. And get this.” His smile grows and I can tell that this terrible plan is about to get even worse. “I called your landlord to see about subletting and he said he didn’t have a problem with it as long you give him an extra deposit, which I dropped off to him last night. So you can still keep your apartment.”